city lights burn bright
by Tariel H
Summary: 1950s AU. Bodies are dropping. Everyone's responsible. Detective Carter's put on the case.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: There's actually no way to explain this, except for it's a noir AU that got serious. I'm trying this multi-chapter fic, with a (relatively) fleshed out plot and everything. As normal for me, it's late, and this is unbeta'd. Any grammatical mistakes/implausibility within this plot are completely of my own doing.**

**Don't forget to leave your thoughts/opinions at the ends. I appreciate any and all feedback. ****Enjoy.**

...

It was a dark and stormy night when it all started. Or, at least, it was when she first met him.

…

_New York: a while back_

She's sitting at a bar. It's got dim lights and small dimensions, and Carter can feel only constrained within the small proportions of the joint. All and all, she's not quite sure what she's doing here, and she's not quite sure why she stays, but there's something about being beautiful just for the sake of it is somehow refreshing. Her bangs swirl out over her forehead, dark lashes peeking out from the shadow of her cheek. Outside, the rain roars down as if it can clean the street (but that's impossible, it'd take years and years of constant, thundering rain to wash the streets of the grime and the filth and the decay and death that cakes the fractured sidewalks). So, tonight, inside of going straight home, she's come to this place were no one knows her name.

...except for maybe the bartender ―in the vast depths of her memory she thinks she might remember him, and she somehow feels like she's interrogated him at some point in her career, which is entirely possible, after all, there are only so many felons in this great city ―and those guys in the corner there. Yeah, they look mildly recognizable, in the way that dangerous men often do.

They all jumpstart the irritable twitch of the hair on the back of her neck, the audible clench of her gut, the wave of wrongness that suddenly threatens to choke her, the gradual, tangible unease that rests in her bones. Her eyes shift to them every now and then, just to make sure they aren't breaking any major laws, but she's pretty sure those joints they're smoking are laced with pot. Maybe heroin. That vague sense of imminent danger, remnants of the army life she left behind is haunting. (Most days its like she never left, and she's starting to think you never really leave the army, just like you never stop being a solider. It just doesn't work that way). _It's your imagine, Joss,_ she tells herself. _Leave it be._

Hard liquor doesn't brighten the dimmed lights of the bar, but _oh _does it help bring her down. Relaxing is something she never really learned, or, she hasn't had the luxury of doing so. Not since Taylor, not since the army, not since being a cop.

"Another, Detective?" The bartender rubs at the cups with a filthy cloth that just serves to make the cup dirtier (really, why does he bother, this place probably breaks every health code violation in the damn rule book), and he eyes her with a stunned sort of reverence. Carter takes a hard swing again because she sort of hates it, that trembling, doe-eyed gaze infused with lurid fascination. Just as she's getting ready to depart, (her phone buzzes in her coat pocket, breaking her her gentle reverie), a voice breaks through the silence she's wrapped herself in.

"Having a good evening, Detective?" This guy, he slides up next to her, forearms flat on the table, fingers laced together, and speaks as if they are old friends. Carter's eyes are first draw to his hat, silk lined, glistening with drops of rain. Not many men can rock one of those type of hats, in the way not many men can rock a pinstriped suit, but he's devastatingly handsome, suit perfectly immaculate and wrinkle free, teal collar peaking out. He removes his hat just as she thinks how ridiculous he looks (a man can rock a teal collared shirt, a pinstriped suit, or a fedora, but not three at the same time. that is an actual crime) but immediately, Carter wishes he hadn't.

He's less conspicuous, and more striking, gazing aloofly and coolly like he's got the secrets of the world at his fingertips. There's an edge of grace in his movements, sharp and controlled, like it takes a conscious effort to restrain himself. For whose sake though, she wonders. A minute passes. Then two or three, but it's only when he murmurs something inconsequential, something about the weather maybe, that she realizes that he isn't going anywhere.

Carter gives him a hard look, like she's running his face through her memory, trying to put in it place, but she's been in the game too long. She can't place him, not in all the guys she's put away, or the ones she's saved. She'd have a feeling she'd remember those eyes, though, like clear cut crystal shining in streetlight, all glittering and vivid and cold.

"You new here?" She finally says, because, hell, she's curious now. He's got her inquisitive and snooping non-too subtly in her brass ex-interrogator way. He lifts up his shoulder in an easy shrug. Carter just rolls her eyes at that, cause it's a non-answer if she's ever seen one, so it must be true, and taps her fingers on the bar. His eyes are drawn to that steady_ tap, tap, tap_ of her unpolished nails on the countertop.

"You could say that." He says, his voice purposefully smooth and soft and seductive. His charm must work on other girls. Carter swivels round in her seat, starting up at him boldly.

"Don't think I've seen your face 'round here before. Where you from?"

"Pretty ladies like you shouldn't make a habit of talking to strange men." He manages to sound both gently amused and dismissive all at once. That irritates her more than his slick mannerisms and smooth charm, this wolf rollin' up in her joint, _already_ holding himself above the rest.

"Pimp? Politician? Pistol for hire? What's your game?"

"I help people." He says shortly, giving her a hard look, not unkind per say, but still, her skin slinks at the sheer intensity of under his scrutiny. Those grey eyes seem to strip away at her skin, peeling the outer layers as if he's trying look deeper into her. Like he's seeing her for the first time that night.

Carter hums softly, leg knocking accidentally against his. "That's what they all say, right before the bodies start dropping. Freelance pistol, then." She casts him up with her dark eyes, turning her head back to the simmering crowd. His eyes are still on her, burning a hole in the back of her neck, but Carter's not some blushing broad and pretends that his gaze doesn't make her blood sing.

"You plainclothes cops never know when to stop asking questions." Carter snatches the smile before it spreads to the rest of her face. It's already caught itself in her eyes, and she knows that he's noticed that.

"Your name will do if you wont tell me why you're here."

"Call me John." A pause. He's tense, and speaks with the heavy seriousness of having said something precious and meaningful. This causes Carter to smirk into the rim of her drink. Briefly, she entertains the thought of the name being fake. It's common enough, John. Four letters, like in John Doe. But he's got the open expression of a child sharing a conspiratorial secret. So, irrationally, she's prone to believe him.

"Aren't you going to tell me yours?" John asks, nonplussed.

"Something tells me you already know it." She finishes her drink, and knows by the sudden rush of the alcohol flushing through her system that it's time to go home.

"Let me buy you another." He doesn't look at her as he says it, instead gazing past her to those men loitering in the corner. Their blunts have long since burnt out. And now, she can clearly she how her initial inference was, sans doubt, correct. They are the dangerous, violent types you don't want to meet all alone in a dark alley. One of the men catches Carter's eyes, your stereotypical Irishman with a stiff jaw and an overload of misplaced defiance, and snarls viciously. She smiles tightly in return, drawing her coat around her shoulders tightly.

"Problem, Eddie?" She calls out, more boldly than she feels.

"You really shouldn't go out there Detective." John murmurs, voice low and sultry. Their eyes connect again, and she feels it, that low, sensations of her pulse thrumming with an unknown, inexplicable emotion that she can't quite place. She just knows, with unexpected clarity, that she needs to leave, _now. _

"I have other obligations to fulfill." Which is a total lie. There's not much else in her life, besides her work and son. Not anything, really. But he doesn't have to know that, and personal information is strictly on a need to know basis. Still, he gazes raptly upon her, and that alone makes her shiver in delight. It's nice to be appreciated.

"Weren't we having a drink?"

"I was," She holds up her drink, swallows down the burn of the scotch, "You weren't." He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but the words don't come, eyes sliding into unfocusedness, as if distracted by some omnipotent voice only he can hear. Carter takes the moment when his eyes aren't on her and slips away quietly, laying cash on the table. He doesn't seem like the type of wolf to let a lady pay, but it's best not to be presumptuous with people you don't know.

...

The rain beats down harder, now that she's out of the bowls of the bar and is able to feel the full impact of its deluge on her good clothes. Carter throws her collar high to shield herself from the sharp bite of the chill wind, and starts to walk. Here on this side of the Lower East End, the walls are crammed together so tight they brush against her hips as she tries to get by. A shadow at the end of the tunnel blocks her. Unease sets in, only as she steps closer and closer and the shadow doesn't move, just stands there with an immovable girth and palpable malice.

_Shit. _She thinks. _Shit, shit, shit. _She goes for her gun at the same moment the man creeping behind her lunges for her waist, nearly tackling to her the ground. The guy in front leers; smiling so wide Carter can see the back row of his yellow teeth.

"Who's comin' for you, little lady?" He says, low and menacing. Carter spits in his face, ramming her elbow against the hollow grove at the base of the man's neck. He lets go with a grunts (she doesn't stop to think or breathe, just _moves_) and Carter lunges forward, slamming her fist into the snarling mouth of the man in front of her.

A dark shadow passes over her, and Carter watches as a suited knee is thrust against the solar plexus of the barrel chested man with a sickening thud. He goes down, and John, she sees the glinting lights of his diamond eyes, relief spreading through her adrenaline packed limbs, crushes the windpipe of the man under his million-dollar shoe, kicking him once in the kidney, then in the groin. He'll be pissing blood in the morning, that guy.

John draws his foot back, slamming it against the man's face. Blood squirts from the orifices of his face, the grey rain swirling it down the gutter.

"I told you not to come out here, Joss." He doesn't have the decency to be out of breath.

"See. I _knew _you knew my name." She responds, sassy as she can, because this is really fucking weird and she sort of likes the way he pushes out her name from his lips, even though she's bruised and suspicious and aching to go home.

"You going to call this in, Detective?" He asks, blinking slowly.

"Yeah," Carter takes a breath, "I don't recognize them, though. I might've tried to put them away, but right now..." Right now she can't remember a damn thing about these two guys, and everything's going fuzzy around the edges. She thinks she has enough brainpower left in her to put in a strategic call to Fusco and mumble out directions to her apartment, in that order only.

"No explanation needed." John takes a step closer, holding out an umbrella to her. Joss watches him with hooded, suspicious eyes, not sure if she should thank him or arrest him. He seems to know of the crime, which makes him as good as an accessory as far as she's concerned. But that can wait till tomorrow. There'll be questions asked if she shows up to work like this.

"Were you following me?" His lips quirk up, face impassive but for his eyes. Damn, his _eyes, _raking over her body, inspecting her.

"I need you to come in. I can't explain," she gestures to the two groaning men, puttering about on the wet pavement, "_This_. I need to go home."

"You're a smart woman. You'll figure something out." He makes his point with a light touch, leaning in quick to press a searing kiss to her cheek. "You'll be safe now. Have a good night, Joss." He says, voice disembodied, and slips away before she can utter a word. Her fingers tremble as she dials Fusco's number, eyes still searching the shadows. Just in case he comes back. Or someone else. She swallows past the lump in her throat, suddenly afraid.

"Fusco. We have a situation."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I meant to post this week before last. Just as an FYI, I've given Taylor a twin sister named Lacey. For reasons. **

**Thanks for the response so far, all of your reviews were wonderful! Thanks so much!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Most in the precinct look at her with a messy mixture of respect and pity and fear. She doesn't take shit. She catches you playing dirty; she'll be the one to personally drag your ass to jail. You can't go saving them all, but she can damn sure try.

People who don't know her think she hates her job, and that's laughably untrue. Yeah, she stands like her spine is lined with steel, and yeah; she never once cracks a smile on any case, but she's seen too many cases botched by those who don't take their job serous enough.

Besides, it's hard enough being the only one who cares what happens to these people_._

She has her kids, Lacey and Taylor, both beautiful and brilliant, and she has her job, which pays enough to get by. For that, she doesn't love the job but it's enough to dedicate herself to it. She's dedicated to the people who need her help, because if she doesn't help them, who the hell will?

...

When she gets home, her dreams are shifting things, dark men, rough hands and tight spaces, screams and blood and cold eyes. She wakes with a jolt up in a cold sweat and a heavy sense of foreboding cloying her breath, making her movements clumsy when she wakes up.

The walls of her apartment are paper-thin, pastel paints long since peeled from the walls, letting the waterlogged wooden beams peeking from behind a few blurred photos of her Moms and Pa, a Caribbean sky stretched out within the confines of the plastic frame. At any moment, she can hear the neighbors screaming or crying, the occasion banging of pots and pans, the low humming and the smell of burnt soup, the perpetual stench of cheap cigarettes wafting from their place to hers. Today, it's a symphony of low sobs, punctuated by running water to muffle the sound, and Carter's stomach drops.

She wonders what exactly goes on up there. It'd be easy enough to find out, and when the floorboards shake with angry, thudding footsteps her resolve hardens to figure out what exactly goes on up there. Carter lays in her bed, listening to the hubbub of noise, clattering plates and chattering children. Her alarm rings and rings and if she doesn't move from the couch now, the commute to work will be hell.

But, it always is. Taylor and Lacey are up before her, dressed and ready in their sailor suits, Lacey's long brown legs laced up in red stockings. Her skirt comes down to her knees, pullover hinting at curves. Taylor still hasn't grown out of his long and lanky phase, and towers over the both of them, sleeves rolled up, tie undone at his throat. His smile is still soft and sweet, and Lacey's is a shade too provocative, like she's always got the upper hand cause she knows something you don't, but that's the easy arrogance of seventeen, those years when you can still afford to believe you're invincible. That's just growing up.

Both of her kids have the same messy Afros, riots of brown curls that shake when the bells of their laughter ring out in the crammed space of the tiny apartment. She loves them more than she loves herself, and easily, she'd give her life for them. Losing her would kill them, though, so she lives for them.

"Ma, we're gone." Taylor says, half a bagel stuffed in his cheeks, throwing crumbs everywhere, down his starched sweater vest and Lacey is the one to lean over the table that's a little bent down the middle to brush the crumbs he doesn't even notice.

"Yeah. Go on you two." She moves from the couch only to kiss them both on the forehead, drawing them tight in her arms. They leave, and in absence of their chorus of happy banter and mischief the apartment and its blank walls are eerily silent. The cacophonous dim of other peoples lives beats down on her eardrums. It's a lonely existence, but she swallows down the dull ache in her throat and closes her eyes, chasing down that elusive being called sleep.

The phone rings then. Of course it does. Carter rolls over, pressing her pillow over her ear as if the phone will stop ringing by sheer force of will. _Maybe_, she thinks, _if I just stay here, it'll shut off_. It keeps on warbling and chirping and rattling like no tomorrow though, despite her gentle pleadings with some higher power, so she stumbles from bed and presses the receiver to her ear, dropping her dead weight onto the chair pressed to the wall that was put there for mornings just like this.

"_What?_"

"Rise and shine sleepin' beauty. We got a case. Since your ass is late anyways, just meet me there." Fusco's voice roars through the static of the line. Is it _really _necessary for him to yell into the phone at this hour? Her head hurts already. He doesn't ever call the house unless its serious business. Then again, murder is always serious, so he always seems to be calling.

Carter rubs at her temples. "Where to?"

"Wonderland Avenue."

"A'ight. I'll meet you there."

…

The streets are sparse, but in a nice way, like a room freshly scrubbed and shining. People scoot across the cobbled walkways, dodging the burly taxis and their drivers, who lay on the horns and curse violently in unknown tongues. Noisy. Bustling. Somehow, despite the side-eyed glances people throw her, this city is inexplicably synonymous with home.

She can't get the stink of cigarette smoke out of her clothes for at least a week. At this point, she's used to dodging the children and their balls, little more than leather tied in a misshapen lump that could be a ball. Men lean against the walls of their stores, aprons starch white and not yet stained with the produce of the day.

Everyone is still awake and unbent and can offer smiles for the sake of it. The day hasn't yet started and no one is yet beaten down.

All these thoughts and more run through her head as she surveys the damage of this one. 'This one' being the latest homicide, and it's the eighth one this week (a paperwork _nightmare)._ Her legs are on autopilot, and the baggy flesh under her eyes is the only testament to her late night.

The man's brains, a young twenty something, are blasted all over the sidewalk, blood gleaming in the stark light of the early morning sun, along with three other youngsters. Someone got to the bodies first, spray painting the outline of their strewn bodies, scrawling crookedly '_Only the strong survive'_ in off-white spray paint. She sighs a sigh that's a mix between a hiss and a bark of angry laughter, breath constricting in her chest. How easily could this have been Taylor? Or Lace?

Forensics are already all over the scene, picking up grey spongy matter that Carter hopes doesn't originate from somewhere inside their victims. She can't watch as they shift through the trash on the sidewalk, packaging everything, snapping shots of the kids gray faces, fingers crunched and the skin of their cheeks bruised.

Execution shots are really _not _what she wants to start the day with, but some cosmic deity obviously wants her miserable. That's if divine deities manifest in the form of petty drug lords hiding behind the barrel of their guns, like a tube of metal will keep them safe. The thought is darkly amusing, but she can't bring herself to smile past the cloying stench of iron and death.

"What d'ya know. This sorry scene's premeditated." Fusco says, popping up by her side, effectively jarring her string of thought. He's good at that, her Fusco, bringing her down when she's too far up for her own good. He thrusts a cup of cheap coffee in her hands, and Carter gives a curt nod as a way of thanks. It's still too damn early to articulate her thoughts, but she's not sure if she can even find the words to articulate the impersonal way the boys were butchered in the street, and how it makes her gut clench, or how she's angry and sad and queasy all at once (there's still the heavy burn of scotch on her tongue, and the world just feels too damn bright).

"Who tampered with my crime scene." She asks, without a question mark at the end, just to let the uniforms, who mill around aimlessly doing everything _but _their damn jobs, know who's really in charge and so they know it's _not _really a question. She'll find out who done it, but it's easier to fess up now and save themselves a world of pain. Fusco hands her a cup of coffee, and she lets it steam in her hands, glaring at anything and everything that moves near the bodies strewn at their feet.

"Detective, it was like this when got the call." One poor fucker pips up.

"_Sure_ it was." The scathing condescension in her voice is like a slap of cold water to his face, and for a minute she wonders if she's being too hard on them. But then the fear in his eyes is replaced with insolence.

"Cool it Carter." Fusco places a meaty hand on her forearm in a mildly placating gesture. "This is too neat for any of this lot and ya know it."

"We got any witness?" She gripes out, turning her eyes away from the guys in uniform that mill around like ants. No, scratch that, more like lost puppies (ants are productive at least), all barking and begging for attention, making a total and complete nuisance of themselves. Procedure helps to clear her mind. You just fall into the rhythm of things, tune out the gaseous thundering of rumbling exhaust pipes spittin' out gas and the low murmur of voices eager for the next scoop.

The neighborhood is peeling paint and shattered windows, rusted fire escapes worn down from use, grime scrubbed deep into the porous brick that makes up the ceiling and sidewalk. Bones of the people and city jut out, and everything feels worn down and beaten. Women with thin lips and haunted eyes hide behind the shifty, wavering smiles of burly men garbed in clothes that hang off the frame of their bodies.

Something about this feels off, Carter decides, from the way no one is willing to meet the hot coal burn of her eyes (really, she could give some of this lot ninth degree burns and the day hasn't even started).

"Some of the chinks 'round here said some guy in a suit ran the block right before our vic got popped."

"You're shittin' me," She mutters and her gut clenches in an all too familiar way, "The guy's suit… Was it pinstriped?" Paranoia. Please, god, let this just be paranoia.

"The hell should I know Carter?" He gripes.

"Tall white guy? Salt and pepper hair?" She persists, because she needs to know if the twist of her gut is actually _something _or if it's still the hangover talking.

"Wait, lemme check," Fusco flips his pad, peering at her over the yellowed notepad with beady, suspicious eyes, "Yeah. That's our guy. How'd you know that?"

"Just hand a feelin'." She says, calmly, looking him dead in the eye. He shrinks under that gaze of hers, and drops the subject, like she wanted him too. Her eyes trail to the side block stationed between two grungy apartment buildings. There's a scrub of brown grass in the front, which is what Carter thinks is supposed to be a front lawn, and the two bottom windows just at ground level have been shattered.

_Those god damn Russian thugs_, she thinks, fists clench in in her trench-coat pocket― but then there's a flash of something, like flash of light, maybe a tall hunched figure slipping into shadows that the sun can't get rid off, ― she frog marches over to the spot were she though she saw it, the tail end of a coat. It's crazy. This is crazy. The boys' are all looking at her crooked, and she can't afford to be weird, and she already has to work twice as hard to gain half as little, but a good cop never ignores the signs.

She pulls her pistol from the butter leather holster and peeks, peering down the poorly lit backstreet. The fire escapes are all bent at all angles, trashes littering in the corner, and it stinks of ash and stale alcohol.

A skinny chico that bears a startling resemblance to one of her dead vics is thrust into a non descript black GTO that squeals away, leaving nothing but smoking tire tracks and a tall man in... A pinstriped suit. He turns, and Carter sees a pistol tucked, _in broad daylight _at the belt of his waistcoat, as he turns and waves half-heartedly in her direction.

"John!" She hisses between gritted teeth. How could she not recognize him? His cheeks are a flushed a nice rosy color, and her detective's eyes spots the minute tremble of his hands that gives him away as an adrenaline junkie.

John, with the nice suit and the nicer smile, turning up at her bar and her crime scene. Not for a moment is she under the slightest impression that it's all one happy coincidence. The world doesn't work that way.

Her guts was right, there was more to this guy than she thought and he does have trouble written in the slick backed easy of his posture. For a moment, all she sees is red. He raises a finger to his lips as he says, "It's Detective Styles in the field."

Carter's cheeks puff out, and she looses her grip on her coffee. Hot liquid spills out at their feet, and he takes a step back so the mushy brown mud doesn't get caked in the soles of the brown oxfords on his feet. He breathes in the smoke and gives her the shiftiest smoke and ladder grin, one she couldn't began to understand if she was even a hundred percent coherent.

"Don't insult me," She sucks in a breath, "You ain't a damn detective. This is an _official _crime scene."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't blow my cover." He takes a step closer, crunching the gravel under their feet.

"I'd appreciate you not following me―" That puts him on pause, brow knit in as if he's really giving that careful consideration. "―and not contaminating my crime scene. Or kidnapping my witnesses." He smirks, and easily he seems to loose ten years worth of wrinkles, eyes sparkling. So maybe he wasn't, and he's just looking at her with amusement. It's embarrassing, plainclothes cop by day, drunken diva by night. Okay, it's not really how it was but it's kinda how she feels, and her cheeks burn for it.

"It wasn't the uniforms who're behind the paint job." From his coat he pulls a creamy manila folder. "I need you to look this guy up."

"Like I owe _you _something?"

"Well… I did save your life." Carter just _looks _at him, refusing to believe that he's actually serious. But he is, gaze not shifting once. He doesn't grin, doesn't move, just stands still as pool of clear water. The calm before the storm. Carter draws up short on sarcastic retorts, so she just shrugs and kicks at the blunt grass.

"I need a reason." She says at last.

"You won't regret it."

"That isn't a reason."

"It could save a life." He takes on an unyielding tone, as if he expects her to drop it, and looms over her in a failed attempt to use his height against her. Carter crosses her arms and _glares _up at him, daring him to order her again.

She hates death, whose cool fingertips wrap around her wrists. She hates the crooked smiles of the gangsters and mobsters who get away with it all. She would weep, but she doesn't have the time, bodies drop like rats and flies, all over and everywhere, and it's her job to clean up the piles of shit other people leave behind. She pretty much hates that too. Cleaning up. It's not supposed to be her damn job.

So, she snatches the folder and tucks it under her arm. It seems like the lesser evil, for now. "Don't let me see you round here again." Is her only rejoinder. He begins to walk away, turning as she jiggles her leg to draw warmth from somewhere. It must be the wind whispering "Thank you," against her ear. Yup. Most _definitely_ the wind.

…


End file.
